Orzammar was a stretch of ornate structures and palaces that nearly seemed to never end, until in the misty distance one could make out the kingdom funnelling down into a lava pit. From the centre rose a coliseum connected to the kingdom's middle layer of buildings by a six-point star of bridges. A cavernous ceiling of rock rose high above everything, easily lost to the naked eye save for where lava trickled down its sides, lending an illusion of twinkling stars and distantly frozen lightning. Like any cave system large enough, Orzammar appeared to appreciate its own weather system — except instead of being ruled by water, it was ruled by lyrium dust.

Which could condense in the perfect environment afforded by Orzammar's ceiling, fall as a light sprinkle, then be carried away by lava to where it would cool, forming rock. With Orzammar's constant mining, lyrium dust was always returning to the air to continue the cycle. Dwarves were immune to lyrium's worst effects regardless, though the few who possessed a weaker constitution appeared to suffer from the equivalent of a pollen allergy. Only unsafe mining practices and directly inhaling a snuff of lyrium risked one's health. Orzammar's dwarves had learned to predict their weather to a pinpoint degree, and assured the warden's party that as foreigners with zero resistance, they wouldn't need umbrellas for forty days.

No wonder dwarves who moved to the surface lost their resistance to lyrium over time. They weren't being regularly exposed to it in this naturally less harmful manner.

Carver could spend weeks describing Orzammar. For brevity, he could erroneously compare the kingdom to a work of art, if art was a thought captured in one medium.

Every inch of Orzammar breathed with the thoughts of generations.

The architect caste lovingly carved their respect to the Stone into even the top of their structure's pillars where no one would look. The painters' caste delicately brought life to the carvings, ceilings, and even corners where no one would pass with a torch, just because it was the painters' honour to represent their ancestors' skill. The weavers' caste spun and sewed the full breadth of their pride into textiles they were privileged for the upper castes to wear and display, and practised their nimble hands on cloth for their fellow castes.

The smith caste had its own micro communities worthy of entire books. Weapon smiths were always trying to outdo the armour smiths, whether in intricate design or in refined balance. Both were constantly competing against the tool smiths, who were safely in demand for existing tools and for new inventions. Paragon Branka was the latest example of how often the tool smiths were recognised and elevated by the Assembly.

The warrior caste refined generations of martial practice into a physical art with deadly precision. All castes below them scrambled for the honour to have their services used by this caste — even the washers caste — for the same reason the painters would work where no one could see. To handle the linens of a warrior family was the highlight of a family's history.

The castes that contributed to the Shaperate were often the same that handled enchantments, writing slates, and tiling. No fault could be found in the mechanisms that allowed for smokeless heat or efficient cooling; even where writing was to be found, only perfect script graced one's eyes. Rich dwarven history also blanketed all of Orzammar in stunning mosaics, such that it felt a sin to step anywhere — though Orzammar's citizens easily passed where they wished and set up stalls as they pleased.

And spilled blood where they felt like it.

"The ancestors will know who is the true king!" a warrior spat.

The warden's party stared as a recent clash between dwarves dissipated, leaving two fresh corpses with weapons behind.

A nearby guard gestured. "Sorry about that. Politics."

Alistair showed him the ancient treaties. "Would you mind showing the way to the Assembly?"

The guard shared the directions with them. "Good luck getting in, though. The Assembly is closed until the next king is decided, and as you've seen, no one can agree on who."

"King Endrin has retired?" Elissa asked.

"Passed to the Stone weeks ago," the guard said. "The loss of his two oldest children had struck him hard. Now his last living son and his chief advisor are claiming the crown."

Wynne tilted her head. "I thought royal rule was inherited."

"Which is why Prince Bhelen has traditionalists supporting him," the guard confirmed. "However, Lord Harrowmont spread word that the king in his last breath had condemned his youngest and named Harrowmont his successor. Prince Bhelen's critics have taken the opportunity to support someone who can kick Prince Bhelen out of influence for good."

"This is worse than Redcliffe," Alistair realised with horror. "Curing Arl Eamon with a myth and a prayer now feels like child's play."

"There's a blight above ground," Elissa emphasised. "The Assembly must honour its word as Orzammar does its ancestors."

Unfortunately, the Assembly wasn't moved. The warden's party caught Orzammar's deshyrs leaving the chamber for their daily recess, and each noble confirmed that they would be more than happy to swear their house's arms to the cause after a king had been crowned. The Seconds, or right hands, of both candidates had then approached the party suggesting that with the Grey Wardens' assistance, they could tip the scales and have a new king decided quickly. In return, the wardens could expect solid support.

"The Assembly already promises such support," Carver intervened before Elissa could swear anything. "Think about it. We gain nothing from helping either candidate."

The warden's party collapsed into an array of benches in a plaza. Elissa watched Dog play with passing children. "What should we do, then? The noble caste has perfected generations of wordsmithing to the point that they can talk in circles for weeks."

"While you guys debate that," Faren hopped off his bench, "I'm gonna check on my sister."

Oh, here they went.

Carver stood up. "I regret saying this, but it's time to take a page from Morrigan's book."

Everyone followed with interest. The witch smirked. "Oh?"

Carver led Faren and the rest in the direction of the royal palace. "We're going to blackmail both candidates, and support the one who has the most to offer."

Prince Bhelen's Second, a noble named Vartag, had earlier suggested to the warden's party to expose a real-estate scam that Harrowmont was using to gain Assembly votes. Nothing public, Vartag had detailed; he had merely provided documented proof for the party to show the scam's victims, and said that privately revealing the dishonesty to Harrowmont's targets was a kindness in itself that Bhelen would recognise. When Faren had implied that the documents could be forged, Vartag had neutrally shrugged. If the warden's party wanted to meet Bhelen in person, they would have to curry his favour, first.

However, when the warden's party approached the royal palace, they were inexplicably rushed in to meet Bhelen, a youthful adult who bore chiselled, symmetrical features from centuries of fine breeding. His long blonde beard was beaded and woven such that, like the Hall of Heroes, it seemed to reveal new symmetry at different angles. When he ran a jewelled hand down his beard, he dazzled. It seemed that even weeks after his father's passing, the prince still made the effort to royally groom himself.

Between the prince's appearance and his Second's behaviour, it was a surprise when Bhelen embraced Faren on sight, nearly picking him up off his feet.

"Brother-in-law!" Bhelen looked like a child, his eyes alight. He kissed Faren on the cheeks. "Oh, you look just like Rica. With the ancestors' blessing, my son will as well!"

Faren stammered. "Uh."

"Your Highness," Elissa began, but Bhelen wrapped an arm around Faren as if she wasn't there.

"You haven't been able to meet our son yet, have you?" Bhelen directed them to a hall.

Faren looked at him, puzzled. "I was on the surface."

Even Vartag stepped in from the side. "Bhelen, we risk the young prince's safety by bringing a…stranger to his room."

"This is Rica's brother," Bhelen addressed someone outside of Faren for the first time. When he wasn't smiling, the dwarves around him suddenly shrank. "By our laws, he is also mine. Come, Faren."

Faren dug his heels into the ground, halting Bhelen. "Hold on. Rica can't be your wife, she's – I'm – casteless, and I've been to the surface. Left the Stone, and all that."

"My amber rose bore me a son." Bhelen wasn't fazed by Faren's words. "I have taken her and her blood into my house. More than that, Faren, I aim to change the boundaries of our caste system once I become king. I will instantly take Rica as my wife where, be they sons or daughters, I will claim our present and future children into my lineage. May the Stone hold record. This is the little I can do to show how much Rica deserves to be venerated."

"Rica wasn't kidding," Faren spoke in shock. "She was safe with you."

At that, Bhelen's eyes subtly dimmed. "Ah. Well, her 'aunt' and I have an understanding."

"Aunt…You mean Jarvia?" Faren deduced. He shook free of Bhelen's arm. "She has taken over the Carta? And you––"

"Used them," Carver finished.

Bhelen looked his way for the first time, and Carver felt himself nearly stumble back from the weight behind the prince's gaze. No wonder the prince was as loved as he was feared. He exuded authority.

Carver swallowed. "Faren, after your sister bore a noble's son, your former gang would take the opportunity to elevate themselves. However, even they can't forge their way into a royal family without Rica's cooperation, and why would she grant it after their treatment of you? So Prince Bhelen cast a hook. Gave them conditions."

Zevran caught on. "Discourage warriors from representing Harrowmont in the Provings."

Morrigan hummed. "Plant evidence against your enemies."

Carver nodded. "And when the Carta demands for what they've been convinced they're owed…you cleanse Orzammar of a criminal syndicate."

Bhelen turned their way. "That would be quite the plot."

"Dust Town," Carver stated. "There's a slum house that conceals an entry to the true Carta hideout. A bone key and password is required to enter. Evidence of your plots all the way back to your second oldest brother's fate can be found there."

Bhelen laced his fingers in front of himself. "You're blackmailing me."

"Negotiating," Carver allowed. "Lord Harrowmont's weakness or your dishonesty; either would be easy to publicise as a neutral and trustworthy third party. The inheritance debate would be over quickly, and the Grey Wardens would receive the dwarven support they're owed."

Bhelen stroked his beard. "What stays your hand?"

Carver replied evenly. "The benefits."

Vartag spluttered. "What has Lord Harrowmont promised that Prince Bhelen can't surpass!?"

Morrigan was starting to have fun. "Is that not for us to know?"

Elissa and Alistair whiplashed between both sides.

Bhelen spread his palms out. "Soldier of Maric's Shield. What can I do for you?"

Of course the prince would recognise certain armour. Carver passively gestured. "State your platform."

Bhelen shrugged. "The ends justify the means. I wish to loosen restrictions against trade and relations with the surface, and allow casteless dwarves to fight in the Deep Roads. Those who prove themselves against darkspawn may be temporarily elevated to the warrior caste in return. It's time that Orzammar reclaims lost thaigs, and I won't let our outdated system hinder us."

Considering the reverence given to the warrior caste, it was a miracle that any traditionalists supported Bhelen at all. The end result was an otherwise impossible mix of traditionalists and progressives supporting a politically savvy young man still in his thirties.

Who was smitten with Faren's sister, and whom Carver had fabricated blackmail over.

Carver turned to Elissa. "You've heard Harrowmont's platform from his Second."

The young Cousland blinked. "Honourable conduct above all else. Lord Harrowmont is a strong proponent of tradition and prefers isolationism. What are you getting at?"

"Harrowmont and his supporters root themselves in transparency," Carver replied, "but pulling Prince Bhelen's true feelings out of him is like pulling teeth. To keep him honest, one must apply blackmail."

Sten grumbled. "All this just for a handful of words?"

Carver nodded. "If you could demand someone to speak truly and without omission, wouldn't you do it? I prefer blackmail over torture."

Zevran falsely gasped.

Alistair actually gasped. "Blood and ashes, doesn't Maric's Shield have age limits to their activities!?"

Carver needed to believably possess blackmail over Bhelen even after everyone had time to reflect on the moment. Exaggeration was necessary. He would correct Alistair's assumption later. "Warden Elissa, the decision is yours. You've heard what Lord Harrowmont has to offer to us. Is Prince Bhelen's transparency sufficiently superior?"

"Wait," Bhelen cut in. "Let it be known that I value my allies. I offer three relics of my family: the Aeducan mace, my late brother Trian's mace, and my late brother Duren's axe."

Harrowmont and his supporters hadn't offered the party anything, or even been confronted with the same blackmailing scheme as Carver was conducting. Yet already, Bhelen was competing against an invisible offer. When dwarven servants retrieved the relics from the royal vault, Carver nearly went cross-eyed at the buffing and detail in them. There was no question the smith caste had poured their all into the works. The weapons could probably balance on a coin's edge.

Elissa sharply exhaled. She understood that in some noble houses, such a gift would be received as a family heirloom. Bhelen was offering them three.

"The Wardens need all the help we can get," Elissa decided, "casteless or not. Isolationism won't help us. Here starts a relationship between the Aeducans and the Wardens without any deceit. …May the Stone hold record."

Bhelen nodded and, like a switch was flipped, tugged Faren over to the royal chambers. "Come, come, you must see your nephew!"

The rest of the party waited in a palace drawing room, some of them visibly reeling at what had just transpired. Carver massaged his temples as he leaned forward on his knees. Since he had detected the blight early, King Endrin had passed only recently and Bhelen's heir was only days old. They were a few months ahead of schedule which was…good? It was still disheartening that Carver couldn't have prevented the royal family's fall and the fight for the crown. Vartag was correct to be concerned for the newborn prince's safety given that Bhelen's enemies within Harrowmont's party weren't above assassination.

Should Carver provide indirect support? Unfortunately, he didn't have access to a highway network in Orzammar like he did above ground.

There were still people to help, though.

Zevran caught Carver as he stood up. "Where to? I'm bored."

Wynne rose as well. "I could eat a little."

Shale lumbered over. "I want to play with more squishies."

The golem had been enjoying shocking the common public. Random old ladies stumbled back from the sight of her. Dwarves from the smith caste fainted in admiration. Apparently, the sparingly few golems that Orzammar had were maintained as museum artefacts in the Diamond Quarter, their command rods hidden in storage so that the golems could never be used.

One of such golems hadn't moved from the Diamond Quarter street corner it had been at when the preservation of Ancient age relics had been decreed. Speaking to the golem was like interacting with a street camera; perfect memory of its surroundings, no personality. Members of the Shaperate had thus dogged Shale's steps all the way to the royal palace's front door in an effort to record Shale's attitude. What Shale liked most was the mining caste adorning her in vibrant crystals.

Carver looked to the rest of the party, who dismissed him for the opportunity to rest their feet or to discuss distribution of the three relics. Decided, Carver headed out, followed by Zevran, Wynne, and Shale.

The four of them spent most of the day performing odd jobs. Well, the three of them; Shale was just happy to follow Carver through all three levels of the kingdom and catch as many eyes as possible. Wynne tasted dwarven snacks and ale in the common market while Carver haggled for potion ingredients. When they bumped into an herbalist treating a patient in the royal palace, Wynne used the herbalist's recipe and Carver's ingredients to make an antidote, to which the herbalist profusely thanked them. The herbalist later found them to share that his patient, Lady Brodens, was offering a friendship with her house in gratitude. When Carver refused to accept, Wynne and Zevran accepted for him.

They also bumped into a dwarven Andrastian who wished to establish a Chantry in Orzammar. When they visited the Shaperate to negotiate on his behalf, a shaper assistant begged them to hunt down a tome thief and return the tome to him. They tracked the thief down to the Provings coliseum, where Zevran easily snuck in and returned with the tome and news that the violent thief had handed the book…over his dead body. The shaper assistant and his mentor were content to permit a Chantry.

As the party moved for Dust Town, a little dwarven girl named Dagna beseeched them to help her gain permission to study in the Circle. Wynne was charmed and impressed by the pigtailed genius, and wrote the entry documents herself as Kinloch Hold's First Enchanter. Dagna gleefully went off to pack up and leave for the Circle. In Dust Town, a lyrium smuggler attempted to recruit their help, only for Wynne to vehemently reject him. The smuggler responded violently and died a natural death by golem.

Finally, Carver answered a beggar woman's open hand with gold, surprising her story out of her. The party convinced the woman's noble father to take her back – along with her casteless baby – or else the woman and her baby would die of illness in the slums. The family reunited in Tapster's Tavern, where Carta agents ambushed the party. The four of them cleared the gangsters out, then tracked down the tunnel network that was the Carta hideout. Flushed by the strongest of dwarven alcohols, Wynne charged in with stone fists, Shale cackling after her. Carver managed to knock out and capture a certain gangster named Leske before the dwarf could join his brethren as a stain on the ground.

Faren, Elissa, and the rest eventually found the four of them executing a drinking contest in Tapster's Tavern, a bruised Leske tied up next to them and cheerful dwarves paying for their drinks.

Alistair gaped. "What in Andraste's name!?"

Carver looked over the pyramid of flagons he was building with one hand, while his other hand tipped beer into his throat. He hadn't had the chance to recreationally drink since he had been a full-grown adult with disposable income.

Sten reached under the table and picked up a giggling Zevran.

Elissa pinched her nose. "Have you been drinking!?"

Morrigan lifted her chin at the pyramid. "And winning, it seems."

Carver drained his flagon and set it down next to the pyramid with two other empty flagons. "No, this is all Wynne's." He hiccuped. "I'm losing."

Faren looked around the pyramid to see Wynne outpacing a heavy-set dwarf drink for drink. The dwarf's friends had quickly picked up on Carver's structure and were building their own pyramid. It was two flagons less than Wynne's pyramid.

Faren whistled. "Have you been drinking all day?"

Leske snorted from where he sat tied to a chair. "They had the decency to only be a little tipsy when they wiped us out."

Faren stilled at the sight of his friend. "…Us."

Leske sneered. "You've forgotten how it works down here, friend. When Jarvia––"

Faren didn't wait past the Carta leader's name to break Leske's nose with his fist. "You nug humper!"

Leske fell back from the blow and hit a flushed patron in mid-drink. The patron turned and punched the closest dwarf.

"Bar fiiiiiiiight!" Someone cried out.

The warden's party entered the Deep Roads in silence. Carver popped his neck with a wince. Three days of rest hadn't been enough to recover from…That Incident. On the upside, Wynne had expanded her horizons and acquired a taste for dwarven ale. On the downside…she had acquired a taste for dwarven ale. It was a black substance ostensibly undrinkable for anyone not a dwarf. Carver had been proud he had managed to down three glasses of it until the side-effects had hit. Now he inwardly gagged whenever Wynne remarked that she hoped to drink it again soon.

"I can't believe you got banned from a dwarven tavern," Elissa muttered, breaking the silence.

Zevran playfully sniffed. "What were you doing while we were being so productive?"

Faren adjusted the two relics strapped to his sides. "Revealing a scam for my sister's lover."

"That isn't the point," Alistair spluttered. "The four of you stole into the Provings arena, introduced religion, shipped a little dwarven girl off to the Circle, and wiped out a criminal syndicate on a drunken rampage!? Then brought a gangster back for Faren to execute!?"

"Dwarven custom," Faren defended. "Leske had been all but family. He had the right to justify his actions before I could decide his fate."

"You punched his face in!"

Carver hid a guilty wince. Assigned with Shielder armour and armed with a sword he had sworn a vow to, Carver was moving past his desire to pass unnoticed. Not while he was on a mission. Still — the first time he was starting to open up to people, they had turned Orzammar's social network on its head. Someone else didn't think of themselves as chaotic.

They weren't.

Aside, Oghren nudged Sten. "How did you get Prince Duren's axe?"

The last relic was strapped to Sten, given no one else knew how to wield the two-handed weapon. The qunari pointed at Oghren. "Karasten. You forgot to leave this flagon behind at the tavern."

Oghren guffawed while Elissa and Alistair groaned. If the dwarf had chosen to sober up for a day, he would have found a way to steal into the Deep Roads and suicidally search for his ex-wife, Paragon Branka. Instead, the unarmed alcoholic had intercepted the warden's party at the guarded gate for the Deep Roads and demanded he join them. When Carver had voted in Oghren's favour, it had been the first time that Elissa and Alistair hadn't readily agreed with him.

It could have been Carver's lack of focus. Or the fact that he had only shed his social awkwardness with beer-soaked dwarves. Elissa and Alistair didn't want Carver to grow comfortable with such a crowd.

Morrigan gestured. "You might as well give him the axe. No one else is using it. The dwarf is dead weight otherwise."

Elissa immediately recoiled. "You want to give a family heirloom to a—" She hastily caught herself.

Sten glanced at Carver, then slowly passed the relic to Oghren. "Ashkost say hissra."

"You know what is the point?" Faren blurted, swivelling his head to Carver. "You. You knew of Prince Bhelen and Rica somehow. Oh this all makes sense! You wouldn't use your contacts in Orzammar to run a background check on a former gangster." He gestured at himself, then to the axe that Oghren gleefully strapped to his back. "You wanted to know about the royal family!"

Carver replied non sequitur, "When Ferelden's king performs stately visits, Maric's Shield fills his security detail."

Faren grumbled. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Morrigan scoffed. "It means Carver does not have friends in Orzammar. He just deduces these things."

"Nug's piss," Faren called.

"Maferath's trousers," Alistair agreed.

Dog barked.

"Are you children done?" Wynne scolded. "We have a dwarven inventor to find and bring back home. Then maybe our words as a neutral third-party will finally bear some weight."

Zevran jibed, "Maybe Rica's lover is using us to prove his platform."

Wynne frowned. "Maybe we should address Prince Bhelen by name properly."

"Woah," Oghren coughed and corked something in his hands. "Prince Pretty Boy is dating your sister?"

Alistair's nose wrinkled at Oghren's breath. "You brought a wineskin to the Deep Roads?"

"They aren't dating," Faren morosely corrected. "They're 'two as one, solid as rock.'"

"Faren is an uncle," Carver murmured.

"Well, congratulations!" Oghren lumbered over to Faren and raised his wineskin. "Drink up!"

Elissa and Alistair immediately intervened. "No!"

A stucco terrace, soft and willowy curtains, and an orchestra of flowery scents carried by a breeze; this was the natural setting for a graceful, dainty woman dripping in crystals and satin. In comparison, her gloved fingers bore the faintest traces of ink as she delicately cut a knife through paper. Her gaze remained focused even as a flurry of voices rose ahead of her, before finally the doors to her study flew open like lightning. Heeled boots followed like thunder.

"Celene!" a thin-haired man roared.

Hunched bodies hastily closed the doors behind him.

The woman in question didn't lift her golden mask. "You embarrassed yourself, cousin."

Gaspard de Chalons hissed at the ceramic lion pointed at a letter opener rather than his own lion mask. "How was I supposed to know that the Fereldens were too stupid to be manipulated?"

Celene's glossed lips quirked. "By exchanging letters with their queen. Her Majesty Anora proves a stimulating pen pal."

Gaspard threw his hands up in the air. "Your libido knows no bounds! Is this why you reject every portrait I send you?"

Celene at last raised her head to watch her cousin pace her study. "Have some confidence in yourself, Gaspard. I typically find myself already acquainted with a few people among the portraits you regularly send me before I receive them. It would just be in poor taste to play favourites."

Gaspard shot her a look. "Hurry up and get married."

Celene elegantly sniffed. "You first."

A particular choice of words commanded one's impression as reins did a horse. Brush the beast's hair, primp it a little, and a horse could become a woman's mount. Celene had captivated the loyalty of many houses this way while evading marriage – and, more importantly, keeping true to Briala.

Did Celene share intimate relations with women of influential standing? Only so far as social flirting went. Heterosexual relationships were an expectation strictly among nobility where bloodlines mattered, and indeed this was a norm shared with most of Thedas's powerful countries. The convention ultimately applied at the altar, however, and while the burden grew heavier as one was closer to the crown, Celene's rumoured dating habits merely stirred society.

Romancing an elf crossed the invisible line.

Dreaming of marrying an elf, more so.

Which was why, if Celene had to navigate around Orlais' patriarchal culture just to push change where needed, she was going to poke at men's confidence where she could. Her female friends were smoke and mirrors concealing the true direction of Celene's affections. If Celene couldn't hide the fact that she preferred women, she wouldn't imply she wasn't interested in men. She just chose not to flirt with any, lest they leap to the idea of marriage. All the while, Celene could remain close with her lover.

Over the course of their letters, Queen Anora had begun to reveal her opinion of noble expectations. Bloodline held weight insofar a family's character could be proven reliable, and did not a family's own conduct speak for itself? Anora only lamented that she had no relatives whose child she could raise as her own. The Ferelden monarch was perhaps one of few whom Celene could genuinely consider a friend. The contents of their letters were easily scandalous, and thus were only handled by those they could fiercely trust: Briala's spy network, and Lady Oriana's merchant family. Of course, a good friend didn't translate to an agreeable politician, but still.

Celene had been advocating greater diversity in Orlais' academic and art institutions, allowing even elven admittance on account they had a noble's support. Her efforts were gaining traction. With support from Ferelden's monarchy, could Celene even…?

She had always been ambitious.

Ever since she was sixteen years old.

;

A/N:

The last bit with Celene is a quick glimpse of the changes rippling throughout Thedas from outside of Carver's POV. Of course, I still plan to write other characters' POVs on Carver as well, teehee. Thank you everyone for your support!

According to dialogue with Oghren, Orzammar has golems. However, the golems are likely small in number, have limited interaction with castes at the warrior level and below, or both, since Oghren had only encountered one or two golems in all his years in Orzammar. Most intriguing is what Oghren comments about his experience:

"I talked to a golem once. It didn't have anything interesting to say... But its memory? Sharp. It could tell you what you were wearing at the Barnack festival ten years ago."

I didn't know how an Orzammar dwarf of the warrior caste couldn't have more than one opportunity to talk to a relic that could apparently attend festivals. My solution was to make golems exclusively accessible in the Diamond Quarter, where only noble castes reside, yet also make them as forgettable as a street camera. Given Oghren's history of having been kicked out of the royal palace many times in his petition to search for Branka, it makes sense he would encounter one or two golems at one point.